


ficlets 02

by choir



Series: drabbles/mini fics [2]
Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of characters filled with guilt and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ficlets 02

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fills from Tumblr.

**Abe/Haruna. Distance.**

 

Abe measures the distance between the start of his fingertips to Haruna’s.

The hotel bed spreads beneath, and Abe notes that the space between them grows larger as the city outside sleeps. He knows not to expect anything; they are not young anymore, angered bodies desperate for revenge.

No. Now, as the sweat between Haruna’s shoulders cools, Abe cannot sleep for different reasons.

Neither recognize each other, caught up in the longing of youth that has long faded, but that is hardly the point. The memories, the things neither can remember, settle between them when words and clenched fists cannot. Blood, and the crack of a nose — Abe knows that these things should have been let go long before this night.

Staring into his outstretched hand, Abe counts the inches that expand from his palm. No more than a few.

On the other side of the hotel bed, Haruna whispers something that Abe doesn’t hear, turning over and letting his arm permeate the space between them.

Their fingertips do not touch.

 

 

 

 

 **Hanai/Momoe**.  **Guilt**.

 

It’s not disgust, in the beginning. It borders on disbelief, immature ego blinding judgement and judgement emitting angry, venomous words to his parents later that night. 

She proves him wrong.

Seven years is a lot to learn, Hanai later realizes. The memories and dreams and losses — certainly, he would be able to learn them too, to catch up to where ever she is.

In the beginning, he just so desperately wants to understand her. As a coach, not a woman. As an authoritative figure: smart, powerful and talented, everything Hanai dreams of becoming.

But Momoe is a picture of fluidity that he has not previously run into, and as his respect for her fills and morphs into an entity that he did not know he could possess, he swallows his dreams and feels anxiousness for the first time in the pit of his stomach, the nauseous anxiety he attributes to only a single thing.

Momoe, back and hips wide with maturity, face controlled in all the ways an adult knows how to, lips twitching into a small smile — Hanai becomes greedy, wants to see all of these things and more.

Respect is only one aspect to it all, he knows. A simple emotion compared to the guilt he feels when she speaks to him, low and soft, to never avoid the experiences you can only take as a child.

He understands the difference between him and her, how the longing between his gritted teeth as she walks away is something to be ashamed of.

 _Fairness is not something adults understand_ , Momoe later says, so quiet Hanai isn’t sure he hears.  _Understand that soon, Hanai-kun_.

 

 

 

 

**Hanai/Tajima. Canon verse.**

Hanai’s nightmares consist of the realities he does not want to face.

Captain, he thinks.  _I am a captain_. He knows of the scandals. The regret. The retribution. Knows that Tajima understands the same consequences if they let their guard down, breath ghosting over each others cheeks in the locker room for too long, hands gliding down each others back when no one looks.

They’ve heard stories. Too many, in fact — of captains kicked out of their position for misconduct and teams left to the dust because of a small slip-up between two players. There’s no  _rule_  against it, but society has a way of forming one into itself, until you cannot breathe anything else.

And this — Tajima pressing him up against the lockers, his small exhales so quiet against the early morning air Hanai wonders if they’re even there — is something that he knows he must stop.

Every night Tajima calls him. Fifteen minutes at three in the morning, small chuckles and Tajima teasing Hanai to no end just to hear him choke up and hiss at the other end of the line. It’s too normal, most times. Too carefree.

Hanai understands that even as Tajima’s lips lean in slowly a half an hour before practice starts, in the middle of an empty, deserted field, someone could still be watching. Waiting.

The anxiety it causes plagues him even in the most crucial moments, when Tajima gives him a shy smile laced with more than just casual rivalry.

“Hey, Hanai,” Tajima whispers into the phone one morning after a game.

“Yeah?” 

“I’m sorta glad, y’know,” he says, “that we’re … like this.”

Through it all, Hanai knows it’s worth it, for moments like these.

He can’t stop it.

 

 

 

 

 **Mihashi/Abe. Flower crowns**.

 

He’s standing in front of you, hands twitching and shaking by his sides, and you can hardly believe what he’s saying, something about  _special_  and  _only you_.

You don’t know what to say in response, but he’s stuttering animatedly over your attempts to speak, and you can’t help but notice the red coloring of his ears, the way it flames to the base of his throat. It sets off odd reactions in your pulse, and your throat — it turns dry.

You had just placed a crown of flowers on his head a few minutes ago, and loose petals slipping from the ring catch on his forehead and eyelashes, making him blink in surprise and fall to silence, and you can’t help it — you laugh at his expression. The wide eyes and quivering mouth; it’s almost too much.

He is being oddly sincere, you note; you’re not used to this forwardness, the attempt at articulation that often falls flat, but you are surprised that you  _get_ it, the mixture of a pout and surprised eyes that struggle to keep talking.

You worry that he doesn’t understand what he’s saying, even, but you can’t stop the anxious bursts of laughter as he keeps tilting his head, lips flapping open.

The nervousness in the air is almost palpable, and your eyes flicker downwards, eyes widening when you realize that the patch of grass carefully placed between you and him suddenly has another pair of feet slipping inside it.

You can see from his shadow that he’s leaning closer, his breath ghosting against your brow, and something is screaming inside of your muscles but you can’t look up, the frantic beating in your ears that blocks out the gentle spring breeze —

And then the wind rushes back between your fingers as he places the crown on top of your head, voice soft as he whispers things that you can’t hear, not past the slight weight now now resting on the crown of your forehead.

And you can’t help it — you tilt your head back up.

Mihashi smiles nervously, eyes shifting from the ground back to your gaze, he shuffles even closer, face suddenly surprisingly near yours, breath warm. Your heart is beating in your fingertips as your hands twine in his hair, noting that Mihashi doesn’t fit quite right in your arms.

You may mutter  _closer_ into the space between you, but Mihashi covers your mouth with his own, a smile so big on his lips that you can feel it melt between you both.


End file.
